


Peach

by upquarkAO3



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Pre-War, Slice of Life, Soft!Bucky, in any iteration Steve can make things complicated, it is entirely possible to have agendas hidden from oneself too, smol thinky!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 07:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15792351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upquarkAO3/pseuds/upquarkAO3
Summary: Steve's got himself a problem. Bucky offers to help, which Steve hates because AGAIN, REALLY? Steve finally relents, seeing no other way around getting his portfolio for the semester completed. Cue funny feels and banter…and maybe juuuuust a little self-discovery on Steve’s part. But hey, it’s the job of the artist to appreciate beautiful things, right? And Bucky is…beautiful?





	Peach

**Author's Note:**

> Following a prompt for HYBB: 'Bucky models for Steve's art'

[~]

“Great. Juuuuusst great.” He thought he was muttering under his breath, but unfortunately his instructor had ears like a bat.

“Steven? Everything all right?”

“Oh! Yeah. I mean yes. Yes of course. No problems here.”

“Well that’s wonderful. You’ve got a better chance than some, not that I’ll admit to saying that if pressed.” She smiled, the heavy folds around her eyes collapsing further into merry furrows. “I’m really looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”

Steve smiled wanly and thought, ‘me too’ as he packed up his portfolio. He hurried down the hallways and out the side door toward the subway so he could be miserably lost in thought sardine-style with all the other commuters. A surly mid-November drizzle exhaled misery down the back of his neck despite the upturned collar on his coat, but Steve was so steamed at his predicament he barely noticed.

But Bucky did.

By the time Steve got home, the chill had settled into his ears and throat, making his head ache and voice raspy. When Bucky asked him why he was so late and why he was _‘bedraggled as a wet alley cat and about as happy’_ , Steve didn’t want to say.

Didn’t want to be the loose cog. The weak link. Not again. But despite his wide stubborn streak, his best friend was no slouch in that department, either.

“C’mon, ‘fess up. SOMEthing is stuck in your craw; not like you to forget to bundle up when it’s raining. You know better than that, winter comin’ on.” He brandished the thick wool scarf he’d retrieved from Steve’s coat pocket in a very accusatory manner for an inanimate object. It, unlike its owner, was nice and dry. “You forgot I put this in here, didn’t you? I swear Rogers, all that attention to detail just goes clean out of your head dealing with the real, don’t it?”

Steve bristled. It’s what he did best.

“Stop fussin’. Not my ma.”

The snap was as sharp and quick as the cough that rattled out of Steve’s throat right after it. Honestly, he was almost glad to have something to do, even if that thing was trying to breathe through the hack; he felt badly. None of this was Bucky’s fault. Not Steve’s problems and certainly not his piss-poor attitude. When he finally caught his breath, he looked up at Bucky through watery eyes, expecting…

Well he wasn’t sure, to be honest. Real deep down, he never was. A lot of people tended to treat him like a joke, or with pity. At best.

But not Bucky. He was an oldest, and the only boy in his family. Years of tending to little sisters (and Steve, too) simply resulted in flat looks, sarcastic comments and the occasional fisticuffs for anyone who dared bully people he loved. Or himself; Bucky was kind-hearted, yes. A doormat? No.

“Sorry, Buck. Been a long day.”

Bucky held the ‘you sure you’re done being stupid?’ expression on his face for a few more seconds before he just grinned, cuffed Steve on the shoulder and threw one of their dishtowels at him.

“Good thing for you I’m **not**. Guarantee one Sarah Rogers would be a lot harder on you comin’ in the door like this than I am.”

Steve grimaced; Bucky was right about that. Again.

“Anyway, dry yourself off. No point in making that cough worse, pal. And tell me what’s goin’ on? Maybe I can help.”

Steve felt his cheeks pink a little at both the chide and the kindness. He knew that as soon as the words had left his mouth, Bucky had forgiven him.

He always did.

Bucky’s way had ever been to love big and easy and soft. Steve’s feelings were sharp and shiny and his heart guarded them close like a dragon on its horde. Never really understanding their differences didn’t make Steve feel any less grateful he was on the easier end of things. The least he could do was get over himself.

Being him, he was pretty good at that, too. Or had a lot of practice. Whatever. Same thing.

They sat down at the tiny countertop in their kitchen while Steve warmed up and Bucky stuffed his wet shoes with newspapers. As he ran the towel over the back of his neck, Steve filled him in.

“Instructor wants more development in physicality from the class. Says she needs us to be better-versed in realism before working out caricature or what have you.”

Bucky’s eyebrows raising slightly said, ‘yeah and?’ silently.

Steve sighed. “She found someone to come sit for us week after next.”

Bucky sighed louder, just to be irritating. “So am I just failing to see the problem or are you makin’ mountains outta molehills again?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “ ** _So_** …fella’s a professional model. Old student of hers, actually. The fee isn’t too bad, especially with all four advanced students chipping in, but…”

Right. Bucky got it.

“How much?”

Like it was nothing. Which it wasn’t. Or that Steve had any intention of letting his friend pick up even more slack. Which he wouldn’t.

“Oh no. No, no, no. I can try to find an extra commission or two – holidays coming up and all. Or ask Mr. Gerstein if I can pick up some extra hours at the grocery – again, holidays gonna make an already busy place busier. Or there’s that new courier service just opened up near the school; I can see if -” Steve interrupted himself to cough again, which, going from the expression on Bucky’s face was the perfect explanation of why all Steve’s grand plans has as much chance of bearing fruit as he himself would sprouting plums from his earlobes.

Steve tried to glare his way into winning the stupid argument he was apparently having with Bucky’s eyebrows, but he knew the slight wheeze wasn’t working in his favor.

“C’mon, Buck. I gotta do something, here. I need to do well in this class to get a seat in the advanced one next semester. There’s big competition for limited spots already. If I can get in there, and shine a bit, I can be finished the degree faster. A little more effort right now will have a bigger payoff later on.”

More coughing.

The whole time Steve was going on about this, Bucky’s expression hadn’t changed much. The line between his brows and tenseness of his lower lip were indicative of the expression he always wore when he was concerned someone was doing something stupid.

Steve saw that look directed his way far more often than he’d like.

He was working himself back up to feeling disgruntled about that too, and so he missed Bucky’s question.

“Sorry, what?”

Bucky rolled his eyes before repeating himself. “So, it’s gotta be this guy or no-one? He’s that amazing?” He looked really peeved about the whole thing, and Steve wasn’t really sure why.

“Well – no…I guess not. But we need at least four primary pieces and then approval by Mrs. Evensham to work one up into something decent. That’s a couple of hours’ time and we can do it all in one sitting. It’s a pretty good deal, actually…just…” Steve raised his palms and shrugged.

“So….lemme get this straight. You need a model. One you have easy access to. And who will sit still and tolerate all the fussin’ and twichin’ while you second-guess every line drawn until you’re done. That about sum it up?”

“Yes?” Maybe he **was** getting feverish; Steve had thought he’d explained himself pretty well already.

“Pffht. That all? Such a fuss over nothin’.” He pushed his stool back from the counter and stood up.

Huh?

“Look no further, Stevie. How d’ya want me?” Bucky cocked his head and let a playful smirk romp across his mouth. He loosened his tie and top collar button, brushed his hands down his chest and then snapped his palms towards the ceiling in a display of ’tah-DAH!!!’ easy carnal confidence if Steve had even seen one.

And apparently, he wasn’t quite finished yet.

Steve felt his eyes start to bug out cartoon-style as Bucky side-stepped toward the doorframe of their kitchen and stretched one arm up to the corner. He cocked his other hip, rested a hand on it and tossed a coquettish glance the likes of which Steve had never seen outside cinema backwards over his shoulder.

Steve had been hopeful to maybe see that kind of look directed at himself in real life someday. From a girl. He didn’t think it would come from his best friend. Who was definitely **not** a girl.

No girl Steve had ever met moved like that. Or talked like this.

“C’mon now Stevie,” came a soft wheedle. “…you know you’d rather draw me anyway, right? Better than some stranger. Some nobody who don’t mean nothin’ to ya.”

 To that, his belly helpfully rousted a few butterflies.

Um. What even?

Apparently oblivious to Steve’s internal consternation, Bucky just kept his act up.

“No? Not what the _arr-teest_ had in mind? So, how d’ya feel about THIS pose then, hmm?” Bucky pinned his rear end against the doorjamb, arched his back and pressed a wrist to his forehead. A fairly accurate portrayal of an _‘oh-woe-is-me-damsel-in-distress’_ from the silent films Steve had made them sit through when he was in his noir phase.

But Bucky wasn’t feminine at all. Had never been, even playing as he was now. Just…beautiful, Steve realized. But it was so… **strange** …to see this provocative vulnerability lace along the lines of his movements. So…enticing?

Steve’s butterflies multiplied. So much so that he missed the next taunt and nearly tripped over himself sitting still as Bucky spun into a half-curtsy with his fingers laced primly under the dimple in his chin.

“Or maybe like this, huh honey?” he cooed, batting his eyelashes.

An odd little knot of warmth began to unspool in Steve’s belly, dispelling the butterflies. It was near kin to the hot feeling he’d get under his ribs when life presented him with something dangerous, but this was deeper. Lower. More visceral.

And completely inexplicable.

Honestly. This was ridiculous.

Steve wasn’t sure who he was suddenly angrier with – his best friend or himself – or why at all. But him being ornery was so status quo that when he grumbled out, _‘if you’re not gonna take it serious, just lemme alone to figure something else out, jerk’_ , Bucky just laughed and brushed him off like always.

Or did he?

“Aw, c’mon pal. I’m sorry. Was only teasing.” He straightened up, shedding all airs so quickly Steve was left wondering if they’d ever existed in the first place. Oddly enough, it was now Bucky who looked a little…off kilter. Not sheepish, either. Not exactly. Slighted, perhaps. Spurned? Which was…what? His quiet words were just as unsettling as the heavy line returning between his brows.

“I’m not sure what to do here, Steve. Told you I’d help, but…y’still seem unhappy. Maybe better you tell me than makin’ me guess. Since nothin’ I can offer is what you’d want.”

Oh. It hurt seeing Bucky off-balance this way. Why?

Wanting to reassure both of them that _no, clearly nothing bizarre just happened; no not at all_   Steve broke the spell by moving quickly.

“Yeah okay. Hey look, c’mere…” Steve tugged him over to their little table by the living-room window. He shoved him down unceremoniously and Bucky allowed it; dense musculature pliant under Steve’s fingers.

“You been looking at too many pin-ups, jerk. That’s **not** the kind of posing I can use. C’mon. Imagine poor Mrs. E’s reaction to a piece like THAT – I’d fail for sure and then where would I be? Out a semester’s worth of money and a bad report on top of it. So no, leave the positioning to the almost-professionals and available natural light, okay?”

Bucky chuckled, and with just the smallest glint of that (oddly endearing?) coy affect he peered up at Steve and murmured, “Aww, am I not pretty enough for you, Rogers?”. His eyes shone behind dark lashes and how had Steve never really appreciated that combination of sea and storm before? He was stricken by a sudden urge to **paint** Bucky instead of drawing him, but he doubted anyone made the quality of oils that could do the color justice.

Oh, for…. Get a grip, Rogers. Christ.

Catching himself before he dropped any further down a rabbit hole he’s never known existed, Steve chuckled back. “No way, Buck. Wasted effort battin’ those blues my way. ‘Sides, of the two of us, dames know **I’m** the pretty one.  My eyes are the only thing I got goin’ for me.”

One corner of Bucky’s mouth quirked strangely, but only for a second. “Well, you’ve also got that sparkling personality and sweet disposition, so…OUCH!” He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck where the sting of Steve’s little slap prickled under his skin. “Okay, okay…’uncle’ already. Jeez, so bossy.”

“Like that’s a big surprise.” Steve muttered. He fussed a little bit, drawing the curtain back and arranging a half-full water glass and pitcher on the table, hoping the ailing post-storm light would survive through his props long enough to capture. He gave Bucky a once over too: fixing his collar, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead and pushing him gently into a slouch. After stepping back for a moment, he draped one of Bucky’s elbows over the back of the chair and asked him to stretch the opposite leg out. Not wanting to lose any more sun, he gathered his supplies before asking if Bucky wanted a book or the radio on.

“Might be a stuck there a little while. Don’t want my muse to get bored, now.”

“Nah. Silence is golden, hey? Book’s fine, though. Thanks.”

“Which?”

“Any’ll do.”

Steve thought his friend’s voice sounded a little flat, but he just grabbed one off the top of the haphazard stack beside Bucky’s end of the couch. “Dunno how you can read more than one thing at a time. How come you don’t just finish one then start the next?”

Bucky’s answer was back to his normal sass quotient. “Got a sharp mind, Stevie. I’m a good multitasker. I keep more plates spinning than you’d ever realize.” There was almost a dare cloaked in those cryptic words, but the sun was setting as fast as they were talking, so…

“Yeah yeah yeah, arright. Don’t move please – and hey, that includes your mouth, y’know.” Steve snickered as Bucky mimed zipping his lip and became still.

It didn’t take long before Steve fell deep into his work. The required focus, the scratch of pencil on paper and the slow tick of their radiator all placated his restless spirit as nothing else ever seemed to. Fingers flying, he chased the slink of light from golden, to pink and finally a soft purple before he cat-stretched and asked Bucky if he needed a break.

“Got a good first shot in. How’re you? Not too stiff?”

The reply was quick and quiet. “M’okay Stevie, thanks.”

Bucky’s voice was subdued, which was unusual for him, but he sounded…soothed, too. Centered. Peaceful. Steve felt more than a minor twinge as he thought of how hard Bucky always seemed to be working now. With his father’s business still, but also picking up a few extra shifts here and there on side jobs to boost the dip in their little household’s revenue since Steve’s schooling kicked in. And never a complaint about any of it; he always seemed cheerful and attentive. To everyone, whether that was giving his ma or sisters fond cheek, showering his girl du jour with affection or even patiently cajoling Steve out of his many predicaments and subsequent moodiness about most of them. Steve knew he himself had always been prickly and _‘a bit of an acquired taste’_ as his ma use to tease. But Bucky?

Everyone loved James Buchanan Barnes. Always had. And why on earth wouldn’t they? Look at him.

Strong body sloped back against the chair, one hand holding the book he was still reading, as if he’d chosen this slightly awkward position of his own volition. Small, contented curl of a smile nestled in the corner of his mouth. Soft rise and fall of his breathing extending and collapsing one long fold traversing his work shirt. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to change before all this transpired and Bucky was usually adamant about ‘shedding the garb of a busy day’ to relax.

Steve swallowed suddenly. He felt very lucky to have such a wonderful person in his life.

He swallowed again before speaking. “Well, the good light’s gone by now…”

Bucky looked up and out the window. “So it is. Didn’t even notice. Well, don’t much feel like cooking, but there’s some left over soup in the icebox. I’ll just…” He stopped himself with raised eyebrows as Steve waved him off.

“I got it, Buck. You looked like you were enjoying your book. Keep reading.”

“Yeah?” The unexpectedly soft expression in Bucky’s eyes did funny things to that strange little knot hibernating in Steve’s belly.

“Yeah. ‘Sides, just needs reheating. Don’t think even I can screw that up too badly.”

They both shared a wry glance. Steve’s reputation as a menace in the kitchen was the stuff of neighborhood legend. Despite the valiant efforts of many, he’d made grannies of every nationality cry in frustration, Bucky yell and both of their mothers had drawn the line at sandwiches in fear for their pantries since he’d been old enough to understand _‘oh no you DON’T, young man’_.

“Arright then. Thanks Rogers. Now, just don’t go gettin’ bold massacring toast or nothin’. Settin’ out crackers is probably more your speed.”

“Can it, jerk.” But the rebuke was without any heat and as Steve walked over to flip the reading lamp on he was tempted to brush back the same little curl fallen across Bucky’s forehead he had earlier.

But there was no reason to now. Right? Steve quelled the itchy tickle-to-fix buzzing in his fingertips by putting away his art materials before heading back into their tiny kitchen. Despite Bucky’s lack of faith (understandable though it may be) Steve **did** manage to make toast without burning either himself or the bread. The space was warm and the little chores full of domestic allure in contrast to the deepening chill outside the window. Steve leaned forwards over the counter to press his forehead on the glass. Everywhere around him were stars of cityscape windows in the orderly constellation of Brooklyn, their own lights just ones of many. But it felt good. Right, even, here in this little place of theirs. And their own places in it. Lost in thought and attention to his tasks Steve really didn’t think he was puttering away for that long. However, when he poked his head around the corner to tell Bucky dinner was ready he stopped before the first syllable even left his mouth.

Bucky had abandoned his perch on the hard wooden chair to flop belly-down on the couch. He must’ve still been initially attempting to read as the book was spread open on the floor underneath his fingertips. He was snoring slightly, which made Steve grin: an ongoing argument of theirs was a variation on the theme of _‘I NEVER, Rogers!”_ as the constant response to Steve’s assertation that _‘uh yeah, pal. Y’DO’_.

The glow from the reading lamp wasn’t fresh, clean and sharp like the light of the November evening had been, but the cozy domesticity was lovely in its own way. Steve’s smile was a satisfied one; that of a minor god surveying all the glory of his tiny realm. After turning back to the stove and lowering the flame under the soup (after not screwing up already he sure wasn’t going to risk culinary disaster now), he quickly pulled out his sketchbook. Pencils again? Ink? His fingers twitched as he looked back over at a dozing Bucky.

No. Something gentler. Charming, even. Like that little smile Bucky had given him.

Ah.

Yes. _These_.

Selecting the best from his box of pastels Steve slid down to the floor and hurried in bringing the little scene in front of him to life. Stretched out like this, the long lines of Bucky’s body were asking silently to be touched, coaxed into existence under the work of an artist’s skillful fingers. All arrested grace just waiting for a place on the page. And who would take more care with such a gift than Steve himself? In crafting this world, he almost felt the lamplight to be a tangible thing woven into the image under his fingers. Soft and sweet as a peach. With each stroke he cradled the glow around the image of Bucky, swaddling his form in comfort and protection. Relishing a chance at role-reversal with a cynical grin. After the death of his mother, it was always Bucky coming to Steve’s aid when he needed help.

But here. Here is the one way under Steve’s control that he could spoil Bucky exactly like he’d not known he wanted.

And so he does, indulging himself as much as he’d like to do for his friend.

With a soft blanket they don’t own and a softer pillow they don’t have tucked under picture-Bucky’s cheek. With plush upholstery instead of scratchy secondhand plaid under his tired body. With an imaginary cup of good whiskey tea steaming next to a handsome, hardcover book instead of the tattered paperback lying forlorn on the reality of their threadbare rug. No, Steve decided, **this** Bucky will have a soft carpet to dig his toes into. And a fat, happy cat curled in the small of his back sharing the nap.

And in this dreamy little world his roommate wouldn’t have allergies or be stunted, sickly and unable to pull his own weight. Steve briefly imagined himself hale and hearty, capable and kind. Because any version of Bucky deserves someone just like he was.

And Steve knows he isn’t. Not by a long shot. Though grateful for his talent, it was also a hardship of sorts. ‘If you’re not beautiful yourself, it must be a bane to see it everywhere around you’ was an albatross of words he’d overheard once; it hung heavy around his neck sometimes.

But that was okay. Really. As much as he wanted to make it his living, veneer wasn’t everything. He had been loved. WAS loved. Fiercely. For his own self.

But it would be nice to have…more, too. Even if he wasn’t quite certain what that meant.

He sighs, holding the finished piece, wishing he could will it into reality as easily as he creates with the work of his hands and mind. And his heart too, being honest. Despite the fact Steve’s got nearly nothing, he’s always had Bucky. And even though he isn’t, that make him feel rich. Immersed in thought, Steve didn’t notice when real-Bucky first started to stir, twisting around on the couch and rubbing the heels of his hands at his eyes. Steve suppressed a chuckle, picturing how irritated the imaginary cat would be with its sleep disturbed. All hiss and spit and claw. A little like Steve himself probably, and he did snort a little at the thought. ‘Sour-Puss Steve’ was a moniker he been teased with more than once. That would be a funny cartoon; Bucky would probably get a kick out of it. Maybe he’d draw it for a lark?

Steve looked down at the carefully-smudged image in his hands. No…then he’d have to explain this…and he didn’t want to. Not really. Not like keeping a secret. Just…something for himself. A little peek into a world where warmth, safety and well-being were something **he** could provide. For someone who wanted that. From  him.

Well, that’s why they called it creative license, right? Surprised, Steve felt his eyes start to prickle but was saved from his thoughts by a low yawn.

He looked up as Bucky stretched out before rolling over on his belly again. Opening first one eye, then the other he blinked dazedly a few times as Steve grinned. More so at Bucky’s nap-mussed hair than anything else.

He was quick to tuck away his work as Bucky croaked out, “What. Wuzzat. Gawk on your face.”

“Nothin’, Buck. Wake up now, lazy. Soup’s been ready for half an hour. Toast, too.”

Bucky yawned again before sassing, “Oh. Well golly, Steve; how’d I ever sleep through the fire brigade?” He chuckled as Steve threw one of his art rags and batted it away. He pulled himself into a sit, still rubbing his eyes. “C’mon, let’s eat. Smells good. Besides, I’d think you’ve be sick of staring at my ugly mug by now.”

“Oh, of course. Such a chore. Every lovesick girl in the neighborhood just wrong, wrong, wrong.”

Bucky snorted as he lurched up to amble over Steve’s way and pull him off the floor. Steve only mildly objected to the grouse of _‘sittin’ like that s’not good for your back, stevie you dope’_ and the follow-up elbow stage-hooked around his neck as they stumbled together into the little kitchen.

After Steve got them settled in with big bowls of soup, unscorched toast and coffee they lost themselves to eating and smalltalk before Bucky asked, “So. Do you have to title your masterpiece or what?”

“Suppos’d to.”

“Any ideas there, Picasso?”

Steve looked over at a decently-rested and well-fed Bucky happily working his way through a second bowl, last piece of toast leaving a trail of crumbs across their countertop as he punctuated his words with hand gestures…and it wasn’t the first picture Steve was thinking of. It was the second, the one with a cozy Bucky safe and snug under Steve’s care. And the only word that came to mind was _‘contentment_ ’. Steve was quick to hide his own satisfied smile around the edges of his last spoonful before replying.

“Dunno, I’m sure I’ll think of somethin’.”

“Y’always do, dontcha? Uncanny really, what with all the rocks you got up there.”

“Jerk!” Squint.

“Punk.” Grin.

**Author's Note:**

> So, some fun tidbits I mostly ignored because this lil' story threatened to turn into a monster...and I am already wrangling several of those ;-) But cool NYC stuffs, nonetheless!
> 
> Steve’s school: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art_Students_League_of_New_York  
> Transit: IRT service expanded to the Bronx in 1905, to Brooklyn in 1908, and to Queens in 1915. The Brooklyn Rapid Transit Company (BRT) began subway service between Brooklyn and Manhattan in 1915. The Brooklyn-Manhattan Transit Corporation (BMT) took over the BRT a few years later.  
> What Steve does: https://www.huffingtonpost.com/paul-boden/art-activism-1930s-today_b_1098260.html


End file.
